


Not your average Poltergeist

by DragonsinGondolin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ghost!AU, M/M, bilbo is the ghost, modern naming, totally not frightening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2544599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsinGondolin/pseuds/DragonsinGondolin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buying a house on a nice country-like area should have been really peacefull and uneventfull, indeed, but somehow, when buying the cottage called Bag-End, Thomas Durin found more than what he had bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello people !! The usual stuff and warning first :  
> 1- Obviously, the characters and various names are not mine. I'm just borrowing the toys.  
> 2- My first language is french, not english. I usually have a beta-reader, but she's not well for the moment, so this work is not beat-read. I apologize for the typos or inaccurate idioms.  
> 3- Feel free to contact me, offer me cookies, plot with me, yell at me (hopefuly not the last one) on [my tumblr](http://dragonsingondolin.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy this !

It was on a sunny day that Thomas Durin moved into the house. Retrospectively, he thought it would have been more fitting if the weather was windy and rainy, with a grim light piercing through dark grey clouds. Cliché, perhaps, but clichés aren’t necessary a bad things, right ? Sometimes they help convey feelings or information easily, without unnecessary words, so that everybody understood quickly where things were going. Well, anyway, it would have set the perfect mood for what happened. But, no, nature had to shine his best lights all day long, with this damn heat that made them damp as they moved boxes after boxes into the house. Good thing that Frederick had had the wonderful idea to bring strawberry lemonade with him, the cool and sweet taste of it bringing relief to the small crew. Not that Thomas had much possession, but forty years worth of living, even when you’re not a shopping enthusiast, takes up some space.

 

\- Do you actually possess anything that’s not in shades of blue or black ?

 

Thomas turned his head toward the room where his sister was opening boxes and unfolding the clothes inside to place them on an old wardrobe’s shelves, knowing perfectly well that they won’t stay carefully stacked for long. Soon, clothes and accessories would lie around on chairs or on the floor, in the bathroom, the kitchen or the dinning room, and every other inconvenient places of the house. He chose not to reply to her, turning back to putting his shower supplies randomly on the bathroom counter instead. They staid silent until Frederick called them from the kitchen.

 

\- Pause for the warriors ! Lemonade for everybody.

 

The sentence was followed by the characteristic stomping of two overexcited teenagers on the wooden floor. Thomas sighed, following his sister who was already scolding her sons from the top of the stairs. He entered the kitchen, taking in the sight of his little family gathered around the table and happily sipping their lemonade. He raised an eyebrow, looking at all the boxes empty and carefully folded, ready for the bin.

 

\- You’re finished already here ?

 

His brother levelled his gaze to meet his, blond unruly hair moving slightly with the movement.

 

\- Well, it’s not like you have a lot of any kitchen-related stuff, which, considering your cooking skills, is probably a good thing.

 

He contemplated tossing his lemonade at Frederick’s face, just to see who would be the ultimate smug bastard in the room, but it wasn’t a good idea to show their nephews such a messy and unrespectable behaviour, so he chose to drink and save his head from his sister’s revenge. Daisy was looking at him as if she knew what he had been thinking to do, so it was probably for the best. She took that look after their mother, and it was sometimes absolutely frightening. He settled for sticking his tongue at his brother after a moment of hesitation.

 

\- Oh, really mature, Thomas.

 

It was a rather uneventful day, considering he was actually moving in a new house, one that he had found himself and bought with his own money, after years of living in rented flats that his father, his sister, or a friend, had pointed at him as “perfect for his needs”, whatever those needs were. It was satisfying, though he had expected to be more excited about actually bringing his stuff in for the first time. But maybe it was his siblings and nephew being with him and helping him, putting things in random places he wouldn’t have picked himself. Perhaps he just needed to be in alone, moving the furniture and objects to meet his own taste. Yes, it was probably the reason. And, after all, big changes sometimes took time to punch you right in the face.

 

A change in his feelings occurred in the evening, not in an abrupt way like a weight falling suddenly on his shoulders, but rather like a slight and progressive shift in his mood. Some times at the end of the afternoon, he found himself standing in front of the kitchen’s door, staring at the garden with a melancholic gaze, his glass of lemonade forgotten in his hand. His family had left around an hour ago, and here he was, staring into the distance like a pup desperate to go outside to play. Though, running and playing in the garden wasn’t what he wanted, of course. He could have done it easily, if it was. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. His idea to begin moving the things around didn’t seem as tempting now. He felt kind of exhausted after moving boxes all day long, and waiting for the next day to start changing the feng shui of the room suddenly felt like a better idea.

What was inducing the feeling, he didn’t know exactly. Maybe finally facing the choices and the new life he’s made alone this time. Maybe the late summer nights’ melancholia he’s been plagued with since he was a teenager. Maybe, it was just the house. It was old, really old, with all this polished wood everywhere, its luxurious garden like an afternoon in some Jane Austen’s book, the silent and studious atmosphere of every room. All of this, or he was just getting old and bored with life. Sad feeling to experiment for a barely forty … ok, forty-three, whatever … years old man, but his sister had always said that he was an old soul in a young body. It seemed logical that it would intensify as he grew older.

He was startled by a noise coming from upstairs. A deep and dreary cracking. He stood for almost a minute, listening closely for another noise of the same sort. Nothing came, of course, and he felt a bit stupid for being so easily spooked. It was, after all, a really old house, and it shouldn’t be a surprise to hear noises, soft or strong, coming from its structure. He was feeling a bit melancholic, right, but he wasn’t a frail old man, frightened by the tiniest sound. He went back to staring at the garden in silence, a bit vexed by his moment of tension. Though, when a second loud cracking rose from the same place, he froze right on the spot, frowning deeply. All right, once was just a cracking, twice was suspicious. Huffing loudly, he decided to go upstairs to investigate what the source of the noise was. Even if it was indeed nothing, at least he would feel better knowing it for sure.

 

He climbed the steps slowly, feeling a mix of apprehension and shame for what he considered a childish reaction to a bit of noise. But knowing that he was probably overreacting didn’t prevent his heart from beating a bit too fast and his palm from sweating. He heard the noise again, and he realized that it was coming from the attic. He sighed, grabbing the torch lamp in a nearby table. The estate agent had told him that there was no electric connection on the attic, and therefore no light. Thomas hadn’t been bothered by it, thinking he had no real reason to spend time in the attic, the rest of the house being big enough for him after all. But, now, he felt that he should have asked for more precision. He had seen enough horror movies to know that monsters favoured dark and removed parts of a house … attics and caves always being their special favourites.

He tried to calm his raging heart as he climbed the stair to the attic. He was being stupid, he kept telling himself. It probably was a little animal who had found his way inside and was moving around the room. Yes, it had to be this.

 

He had no idea what could have induced those noises if not some small creature. Well, he didn’t know at this point how accurate and yet wrong he had been in his assumption.

 

The first thing he noticed upon entering the room was the dim light. At first, he thought that someone had forgotten to switch off a table lamp, before remembering almost immediately that there was no power here. At the same time, his brain brought the idea that it was the late afternoon light coming from outside by some opening in the wall. But, again, he knew as soon as the idea appeared that it couldn’t be. There was no opening in the walls except one round window facing the east, not the right direction then. Actually, it seemed that the light was coming from inside, from the room itself. Thomas was left standing at the doorstep, frozen by this surreal conclusion. A room wasn’t supposed to just glow by itself. This was not something rooms usually do. There had to be a reason for it. Well, good job Sherlock.

He took a few steps inside, torch not lighted but somehow held like a weapon, ready to strike if anything funny appeared out of nowhere. Again, the cracking rose in the air. It seemed that it was coming from everywhere in the room at the same time, the walls, the floor, the roof. Now, Thomas was a tall man, gigantic had been a recurring description since he was a teenager, and rather strong. But faced with the possibility of something supernatural happening in the house he just moved in, he had the feeling that his impressive silhouette wouldn’t be really helpful. After all, the stupid bulky football player was always among the most likely to be slaughtered mercilessly in any teen horror movie, right ?

He walked around the room carefully, one step at a time, looking around for some hints of what was going on. There weren’t any, just the light and the occasional cracking. Otherwise, the room was filled with various objects, obviously stored them to make room in the rest of the house. Nursery furniture, suitcases and a few chairs, even a kind of … was it a crystal ball ? It looked like one, but anyways, he doubted that it had anything to do with the current issue. Probably brought from a trip by a family member and thrown in there. He went back to his research, desperate to believe that it was just his imagination, that there was some logical explanation for all of this, really. But his brain wasn’t supplying him with any reasonable theory. It was completely useless, going on rants about how he didn’t want to die here in one of the ridiculous posture that never failed to happen to movies’ characters. Nope, not today, not ever. He startled when he heard a different noise behind his back, like something scratching a wall. Slowly, he turned around to confront the source of the noise. He yelped when faced with a white emotionless face with deep grey eyes and fell backward. He closed his eyes, hoping that he would wake up and realise that he had fallen asleep downstairs after his family left.

 

\- Oh ! Crumpets ! I am really sorry, I didn’t want to startle you.

 

He opened his eyes slowly, and he almost had a heart attack when the white face, which belonged to an equally white body, bent over him as if to check for injury. It was even worse when he saw that the “person”’s feet weren’t touching the ground, floating instead. The thing started talking again.

 

\- I don’t think I know you. Are you a friend of Lobelia ? Well, no, she doesn’t really have friends ... beside other old witches like her, I mean. Lothaire’s maybe ? Are you Lothaire’s friend ?

\- Lothaire ? Who’s that ?, Thomas found himself stammering in reply.

\- Well, Lothaire, my cousin’s son, the thing huffed. My esteemed cousin’s son, he added with a more ironic tone.

 

The … hm … ghost was looking at him intently, and Thomas gulped under his stare.

 

\- I do hope you’re not a burglar. I hope for you, I mean. Though I would love to see the look on Lobelia’s face, I doubt you’ll stay alive long enough to share a good laugh with me.

 

He grinned, while Thomas was trying hard to clear his mind.

 

\- I … I’m not a burglar, I live here. I just bought the house. I guess that this Lobelia was the previous owner then. I’ve been told she wanted to sell it to settle down in a ... more sunny location.

\- Makes sense. She never liked the place much, though she always wanted to steal it away from me, dreadful greedy woman. Stole my silverware once, but I took it back from her.

 

He sighed before adding in a somewhat melancholic tone.

 

\- Well, that was a long time ago now. She has all of it now … or had.

 

Thomas, still sitting on his butt on the floor, tilted his head.

 

\- Then … hm … sorry for asking bluntly but, who are you ?

 

The ghost seemed to stop the chain of his thoughts, gaping.

 

\- Oh, sweet Yavanna, where are my manners ? My name is Benjamin Baggins ! But, you can call me Bilbo, since we’ll have to share the house for a while, I guess.

\- Share the … house ?

\- Of course ! It’s not like there’s anywhere I can go. This is where I died, I’m stuck here. Not that I don’t appreciate being in my house, I guess it’s still better than haunting the supermarket, but you see, this is pretty much permanent and restrictive. You’ll be the one to leave before I do, I’m afraid.

 

Thomas was looking at the ectoplasm with a puzzled expression. He had been dreading some supernatural encounter, and to be fair, it was one, but it didn’t look like anything he has read or seen before in his life. The creature was far too mannered, clothed in translucent shirt and waistcoat, with trousers that looked suspiciously like corduroy. Not your average poltergeist. Thomas found himself reflecting on that. After all, ghosts were supposed to be the spirits of dead human being. If the human being had been a gentle and kind folk, it made sense that their dead form would be too.

 

\- And, since when are you … here ?

 

The ghost turned to him, flashing a toothy smile at him.

 

\- Haunting, you can say the word. I’ve been dead for long enough, now, it doesn’t bother me anymore.

\- Yes, right. So, how long have you been haunting the house ?

 

The creature took some time to think. He looked like he was actually calculating.

 

\- I’m not sure. Counting time doesn’t really matter when you’re dead. Well, at first you do count, yes. Oh, It’s been six days since my death, it’s been a month, than after a while, you stop keeping the record.

 

He looked at Thomas, apparently lost in his thoughts.

 

\- Considering Lobelia’s aging, I’d say … roughly twenty years.

 

Remembering suddenly that he was still sitting on the floor, Thomas tried to stand up. Maybe he had been too quick, or maybe he had misjudge the fright he had experienced, but he knocked a table off in the process. The table fell on the floor as Thomas caught himself on some sort of console, who fell too, the content of its drawers spilling around.

 

\- Uh, what a mess you’re creating.

\- Very helpful, thank you.

\- Well, it’s not like I can catch you. I couldn’t even touch you. Not that I would … touch you I mean … I didn’t usually touch people, I was respectable, thank you very much.

 

Thomas wasn’t listening to the ghost’s rambling anymore, his eyes catching a little stone who had rolled on the floor. It was small, round, and apparently the source of the strange light, if its golden halo was any indication.

 

The ghost had stopped talking, looking at it too, floating a bit closer to Thomas.

 

\- Look, it’s the stone that killed me.

\- Excuse me ?

\- Oh, well, I guess it’s a bit unfair to say that the stone killed me, right ? I mean, it’s an inanimate thing, it doesn’t wander around on a killing mission. No, I mean, it’s the stone on which I fell and killed myself.

\- Ok … why is it glowing ?

\- I don’t know, the ghost said, scratching his head. It just does.

 

Seeing how none of them had any explanation, Thomas decided to drop the matter. He plaid with the stone in his hand a bit, watching its light dancing on the walls.

 

\- Erm … are you confined to the attic, or can you actually move around the house ?

\- I can go anywhere inside the house. Lobelia didn’t like that, so I used to stay up here when she was being obnoxious … that is to say most of the time. Sometimes I went down to annoy her, though.

\- I guess it gets a bit lonely here ?

\- You tell me, Bilbo sighed.

 

Thomas scratched his beard pensively. He hadn’t planned to have a roommate, or housemate, and a dead one on top of that, but the guy was stuck here anyway, and Thomas didn’t really feel like moving out after finally finding a nice place to settle. Also, he felt sorry for the ghost, having to stay forever in his old house as it was taken and occupied by strangers. Twenty years ! Twenty years of dealing with an unpleasant relative who stole your stuff, moved them around, sold them, even legally, while you were forced to stay in the attic, sulking for eternity. Or, well, maybe not sulking, that would be his personal reaction, Bilbo seemed more cheerful than that, but even him had bad days, he assumed. It was really sad. Thomas didn’t really want to dwell on those thoughts and imagine this kind of life for too long. He looked at the ghost with an unreadable expression, though his sister would probably call it threatening, but a ghost wouldn’t be likely to feel threatened by a mortal man, after all.

 

\- You know, mister Baggins …

\- You can call me Bilbo, really. Mister Baggins sounds so formal.

\- Yes, Bilbo … you can, move in the rest of the house if you want. I mean …

 

He shrugged a bit under the ghost’s blank face.

 

\- As long as you don’t invest my bedroom or bathroom … it would be cruel of me to exile you in the attic, all alone.

 

Bilbo smiled. He looked genuinely happy and thankful, and Thomas wondered if the cheerful “I’m not that bothered by being dead and haunting my house full of strangers” look was not a way to mask some sort of sadness buried deep inside. Or maybe he was just imagining stuff. Wouldn’t be a first.

 

\- That’s really kind of you. I’ll try not to get in the way too much but … thank you.

 

That was how Thomas Durin went to bed that night, thinking he had done a good and kind thing, which would be a first according to his brother, but Frederick liked to exaggerate. Thomas was a good man, really. He just didn’t have many occasion to show it. And that would be when his sister would jump in the conversation to say that he didn’t actively look for an occasion to be social and kind either. Sadly, Thomas was aware that she, on the other hand, was rarely exaggerating. Turning around in his bed in an attempt to chase the imaginary conversation with his siblings, the man tried to direct his thoughts to the ectoplasm on the attic. What a strange creature. He was nothing that Thomas would have expected from a ghost. Not that he had expected a ghost on his attic, but you don’t always get to choose, and if he had been told “oh, by the way, there is a ghost on the attic”, he wouldn’t have expected such a polite and petite translucent thing. Well, he probably wouldn’t have bought the house, to begin with. Still, it was comforting to know that the ghost he would have to share the house with seemed like a sensible fellow.

He didn’t really feel like running away screaming, or just leaving the house that he had been searching for so long … not this precise house, of course, the metaphorical idea of a house. This one was good, he wanted to stay here, make a life between those walls. He thought he deserved that. If both his siblings had managed to give up past memories to build a new life, there was no reasons he couldn’t do it too. Now and here sounded like a good start. Just to stop running, chasing after dreams of old. He sighed, turning again. If he had to accommodate with an apparently decent creature, well, he would give it a try. Challenge had never stopped nor frightened him, on the contrary. Thomas Durin seemed to thrive when he had something tricky to achieve. He finally fell asleep to that thought, a little smile on his lips.

 

Waking up the next morning, and preparing breakfast in the kitchen -his kitchen- Thomas felt slightly overwhelmed by how gorgeous the house was. Of course, he had noticed that it was a pleasant place before buying it, but on this particular morning, it felt truly wonderful. Now, he had always been quite the morning person, not minding to get up early to start working or go running. But starting his day by taking a nourishing breakfast on a splendid veranda was something else. Nested on the large rattan chair, sipping his coffee quietly, he felt good. He remembered how his mother kept telling them about her childhood home, with its jardin d’hiver and abundant vegetation. He had often huffed, thinking she was just being unnecessarily fancy. She had grown up in a really privileged household, and loved to talk about it. It took him time to understand that she didn’t mean it as a way to brag. She simply cherished her memories, filled with joy and innocence, and saw no shame in talking about it. But when you’re a grumpy teenager, and tired of being called “Sir dark and posh”, you have trouble realising it. But all of this was a long time ago. No need to dwell on that, not when he finally got his own peace of mind. He sighed happily, munching on a toast and stretching his legs to rest them on the table.

 

\- I’ll have you know that this table was carved by my father.

 

Thomas startled, turning his head to the source of the noise. The short ghost was looking at him, a large grin on his face which, combined with the sarcasm in his tone, confirmed that the sentence he just spoke was merely a joke and not an accusation.

 

\- Oh, good morning mister … eh Bilbo.

 

The ghost turned his head to the sky, nodding.

 

\- Yes, it is. I just hope it won’t rain.

 

Thomas looked at him, a bit puzzled, but didn’t comment on that. Instead, he asked.

 

\- Hm, aren’t you afraid that someone would see you in broad light ?

\- Have you seen the road to come here ? There’s just this house, and the Gamgees’ a bit down. Well, if they’re still living here, that is.

\- No idea.

\- They’re nice persons. I do hope they’re still around. Young Alfred used to help me with the garden, but Lobelia decided to employ ridiculously expensive workers. Paysagiste, she called them.

 

Thomas smiled, recognising one of the words his mother used to say. He let the ghost rant without interrupting him, though. He seemed really passionate when he started talking about something.

 

\- What is it with people using random French words as if it is the ultimate fancy ? Hm … I guess it doesn’t really matter.

 

He was looking at the clouds, pensive.

 

\- Anyway … no, I’m not afraid of people seeing me. There’s not much probability that someone would appear here.

 

Thomas nodded, remembering that it was one of the reasons why he had favoured this house over the other he had found.

 

\- And what if they do ? It’s not as if there is anything they can do about it, isn’t it ?

\- They could still spread the news and we’d have a huge deal of people coming and spying in hope to get a proper look at you.

\- Oh, right. That would be quite inconvenient, for sure.

\- Indeed.

 

He grabbed another toast, the ghost’s stare following his movement with something akin to longing in it. He looked at him, interrogative, and Bilbo explained.

 

\- It’s been a while since I had toast. Obviously, I can’t eat, but it doesn’t mean I don’t miss it. I still can smell, you know.

 

Once again, Thomas felt bad for the ghost. He put the toast back on the table, not wanting to eat in front of him and appearing rude. Though, it wasn’t his fault, and it wouldn’t made sense for him to starve just to prevent hurting the creature’s feeling. Still, it didn’t feel right. Bilbo saw his move, and started moving his arms franticly around himself.

 

\- Oh, no no, don’t stop for me. I’m just a crazy old ghost.

\- Okay, he replied with uncertainty, reaching for the toast again.

\- Yes, good. You just eat, as any human should. Don’t mind me.

 

Breakfast went like this, both of them sitting, Thomas in the chair and Bilbo in the air, conversing while looking at the quiet garden, bathing in the summer morning’s light. Bilbo was a really chatty thing, joyful but in a different way than most people Thomas had met before. As was established before, Thomas wasn’t exactly a social person. He liked silence, and being alone had never bothered him. In the contrary, pointless conversation, such as small talks or even exchanging banality about politics or the weather, tended to exhaust him. It didn’t mean that he never met people or that he avoided stepping out his front door. He still needed to for practical reasons and for his job, but he was more used to people listening to him, or talking about work-related stuff. Talking for the sole purpose of being pleasant wasn’t exactly his forte. As a consequence of this, people chatting for no reason usually got on his nerves. And he had never being good at hiding his disdain, or so his sister said.

It felt different with the ghost. They were actually exchanging pleasantries, Thomas was aware of it, but somehow, it wasn’t the annoying gibbering he heard when most people were speaking. The ghost’s voice was pleasant, warm and had a hint of old-fashion, which surprised Thomas as Bilbo didn’t die that long ago. His way of talking seemed more ancient then the years he lived in. Strange, but refreshing. Perhaps he was used to read old books. Anyways, all of this created a feeling of welcoming and comfort that Thomas had never really experienced near someone who wasn’t a relative. It even prompted him to make a mental note to go and see if the Gamgee family was still living on the smaller house at the entrance of their street. Volunteering to meet new people and act like the friendly neighbour wasn’t something that he did naturally, so that was telling a lot about the ghost’s effect on him. He just wanted to have something to tell Bilbo about the outside world, something that would allow him to feel closer to it.

He wasn’t sure exactly why he wanted the ghost to feel connected to the world again. Perhaps part of him selfishly hoped that it would be easier to live with a being who listened to his ramblings about life, and was actually interested in it. Perhaps he genuinely felt bad for the ghost and wanted to make his li… erm his death … a bit better. He had the feeling that these cousins of his didn’t take much time to talk to him and keep him updated on what happened outside the house. Whatever it was, he felt that he could give it a try. Daisy was too right when she said that quitting the grumpy shell he had wrap around himself all those years could do him some good, he knew that. Seeing the grey translucent smile would be a first step.

 

New house, new behaviour around people ? It didn’t sound to him like something that would end well, but he couldn’t know before trying.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Durin decides to go for a walk and say hello to some of the neighbours ... because what else is there to do when you start a new life somewhere ?

The same morning, Thomas did something he never expected to willingly do even once in his life. After dressing, an activity that consisted mostly of grabbing the first things next to him and putting them on, he closed the front door and took his first official steps in his new neighbourhood. He was going to walk down the road, breathe the open air, maybe sing or whistle a little tune with his hands in his pockets. And, more importantly, he was going to knock on the next house’s door to see if the Gamgee family was indeed still living there. Curiouser and curiouser his brother would have said while scratching his jaw, the ex literature student in the blond man having a habit of waking from his slumber anytime he was confronted with a strong feeling.

He shook his head slightly, trying to get read of the voice sounding suspiciously like Daisy telling him in a sassy tone that he would probably make an arse of himself in front of anybody living down the road. Well, the good point in living here was that he didn’t really have to talk with any of them if he so wished. It was a long and isolated road after all, and there sure were a lot of trees to hide behind forever. No, he needed to stop thinking in such a pessimistic way. He had promised himself that he would check if the Gamgees were still there, and he was going to do just that. Not a time for being a coward, Durin, he thought. He wasn’t the kind of man to just let go or give up on things. Actually, it was a well known fact among his friends and family that the greatest strength, and also the worst habit sometimes, of Thomas Durin was that he always did what he had settled in his mind on doing.

 

The house down the road was built with the same almost golden stones as his own, with the same tiles on the roof and probably wood everywhere. Except his house was bigger, and its architecture a tad more precise and fine that this one. But on the other hand, the smaller house was really welcoming, with bright yellow door and windows, a neatly tamed garden and a tall tree with a swing and birdhouse. It looked obviously lively, but in a peaceful way. A house that looked like a nice home to grow up in. As if on queue, a little girl ran out of the front door, chased by a teenage boy about fourteen or fifteen years old, both of them giggling loudly. The girl stopped when she saw Thomas, though, eyes widening as her … brother probably … went to wrap his arms around her shoulders with a protective expression on his face. Thomas smiled to reassure them, aiming for friendly neighbour, but probably ending scolding somehow. The boy tilted his head, visibly trying to look braver than he was.

 

\- Good morning sir. May I ask who you are ?

 

Really polite, though, in the same cautious manner as the ghost. Maybe it was something in the water ?

 

\- Hello, I’m your new neighbour. My name is Thomas Durin.

 

Recognition flashed through the teen’s eyes.

 

\- Ohh, yes, that’s true. Old grumpy Lobelia left.

 

Thomas was amused to discover that Bilbo’s distaste for his cousin was shared. The kid’s face took a serious expression however.

 

\- Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude but … Mrs Lobelia wasn’t really nice.

\- She was real meaaan, the girl added, nodding.

\- It’s alright, she won’t know anyway.

 

They smiled at him as if they were now sharing a secret. The boy extended his hand, still serious, and Thomas shook it.

 

\- I’m Sam. This is Marigold.

\- Nice to meet you two. Tell me, has your family lived here for long ?

\- Yes, we did. My grand-father bought the house.

 

He then pointed at the line of trees, in the general direction where Thomas’ house was.

 

\- My father used to tend to Bag-end’s garden when he was my age. He told me it was nice extra pocket money. He invited my mum on dates with it.

 

Bag-end. Oh yes, the house had a name, he recalled. The man from the agency had mentioned it in one of their meetings. Thomas smiled at the sweetness of Sam’s anecdote. He decided to push his luck to see if he could collect more information from the kid.

 

\- He stopped, then, I presume ?

\- Yes, when Mrs Lobelia got the house.

\- She bought it ?

\- Noooo, inherited it when the previous owner died.

 

Thomas nodded in a solemn way, as if understanding. Of course, he already knew all of this, but he had to bring the matter one way or another.

 

\- Who was the previous owner ?

\- A man called Bilbo I think, but I didn’t know him. Dad would know, though.

\- Know about what ?

 

A man, a bit younger than Thomas, large of built and rather short, came out of the house behind the two kids. His skin was sun-tanned, as someone who spent a lot of time outside, which was probably the case if the state of the garden was any indication. The Gamgees probably did a lot of gardening.

 

\- About Mister Baggins, da.

 

The man seemed to consider that a moment, gaze focused on nothing. He seemed to remember that there was someone around, after a while, and looked at Thomas with a puzzled look.

 

\- Why would you want to know that ?

\- Simple curiosity. I wanted to know more about the house.

\- Hmmm, makes sense. I get you’re the new neighbour then.

 

Thomas nodded, shrugging a bit.

 

\- Ah, sorry. I’m Thomas Durin and yes, I bought the house. Moved in yesterday and I thought I could walk around and meet people.

 

He tried his most natural and friendly smile. Not that it was a really used one, but he had been told on some occasion that it made him look quite dashing and trustworthy. A description that always made him snort. Trustworthy, right, he knew that one to be true, but dashing ? That sounded entirely too dramatic a word, especially applied to him. Anyway, it seemed to work, as Mister Gamgee smiled back, apparently reassured.

 

\- And I’m Alfred Gamgee ! Would you like to come in, mister Durin ?

\- If it’s not too much trouble ?

\- Not at all. If you want to know about the house, you came knocking at the right door. Please, follow me.

 

Thomas did as told, following the man into the house. The inside was as comfortable-looking and peaceful as the outside has made it seem. It wasn’t exactly as quiet as Bag-End, though, much more lively. Of course, that was to be expected from a house where children lived, which wasn’t the case of his own house. A moody lone man and a polite poltergeist didn’t make for a noisy place, indeed. They sat down in a nice living room, refreshed by a light breeze coming through the open window. Alfred Gamgee smiled at him.

 

\- So … Benjamin Baggins Jr. What do you want to know about him ?

\- What do you have to tell me ? he replied as casually as he could.

 

The man scratched his shaved jaw, humming lowly.

 

\- What do I have to tell you ? He was an odd man, that he was, with his fancy looks and talking. I remember people used to laugh at that, call him mad too.

\- Mad ?

\- Aye. Mad Baggins, forever alone in this big house, and like living in other times.

 

He interrupted himself to look at Thomas with a serious expression that reminded him of his son.

 

\- You’ll find soon enough that people ‘round here, they don’t like unusual things. Hobbiton is a nice place mister Durin. It’s my home, and great to raise little ones … but we don’t like weird. Benjamin Sr, the father, he was respectable and all, but his wife was quite the oddity. I think people never really understood why he loved her, and Yavanna knows he did, and they projected this confusion onto the son.

 

Thomas was listening carefully, mind wandering to the ghost and reflecting on how he had himself found his behaviour rather unusual. He started to understand that it wasn’t just an impression. Bilbo was indeed quite strange. Meanwhile, Alfred was still talking.

 

\- But he was a nice person, though. Always something polite to say, even when he was obviously not in the mood for conversation. I always told myself that he would have been a fine diplomat. Patience, silver tongue and all.

\- What was his occupation ?

\- He wrote I believe.

\- Wrote what ?

\- My, I’m not sure. Articles, essays, stories. He was quite the scholar, and a good storyteller too. Kids liked him … until they were old enough to listen to their parents’ gossip, that is.

\- Was it really that bad ?

 

Alfred harrumphed and Thomas looked at the man, frowning.

 

\- Oh, not at a bullying level, no, but not friendly either. Lobelia was the worst actually. She was not only full of gossip, she was also jealous. She thought that Mister Baggins shouldn’t have had the house in the first place, as he was living there alone.

 

He sighed.

 

\- Do you have kids mister Durin ? I saw teenagers yesterday.

\- No, they are my nephews. They came to help me move in, that’s all.

\- They seem full of life.

\- Ohh yes, they are. Maybe a bit too much for our liking sometimes.

 

Mister Gamgee chuckled, nodding. They soon smiled at each other with a knowing expression on the face.

 

\- Aye, I know the feeling.

 

It turned out that Alfred Gamgee didn’t have much more to tell him. He had worked in Bilbo’s garden for around five years, and had been his neighbour for twelve before Lobelia inherited the house. Despite all this time, however, he hardly knew a thing about the man’s life. Bilbo had been a polite and private person when he was alive, which didn’t surprise Thomas much, and Alfred was young when he died. Every fact he might have witnessed or heard of about Baggins had been forgotten or pushed back in the depth of his memory. What he told Thomas was meagre information that the taller man could have guessed himself from the behaviour and conversation of the ghost. The real new thing he learnt was to be cautious around the town folk. It was nice here, he didn’t want to move again because his past, or his general person, was deemed too odd for those people’s standards. Even if those standards hadn’t been this low, he had an intuition that they wouldn’t welcome him too warmly, though. Better be careful around them and watch his tongue then.

He left the Gamgee’s house with a smile and a promise to go to them if he had any problem. It happened that Alfred had started his own gardening business after a few years working for an uncle, or was it a cousin, and Thomas was thinking of hiring him for his own garden. If the man’s was any indication of his skills, he had no doubt that it would do wonders for Bag End’s. Not that Lobelia’s gardeners had not done a good job, which was rather normal considering the money she probably spent for that, but he wasn’t much impressed with having strangers around. It seemed that Bilbo and him shared more than the house : they both kept to themselves and, if given the choice, they preferred having local people that they could trust over fancy professionals.

 

He then headed towards the town, hands in the pockets of his jeans and nose in the air, as if to physically breathe the morning. Because apparently, you could breathe in a metaphorical concept. It smelled of late summer’s flowers, and a pinch of great trees like cedar or oak, slowly building the atmosphere for autumn. He wouldn’t be too disappointed when the temperature finally dropped, to be honest. It felt like they were living in the forge of Mahal himself these days, and he personally wasn’t made for hot weather.

The town was rural, despite being only an hour away from the big city, with this sense of quiet and removed from the world. He recalled being a bit weary at first when he found the location of the house. An hour was rather long every morning, and he wasn’t used to living in rural areas. Plus, the town’s name had looked like a joke. He was aware that a lot of small English villages had weird sounding names, but Hobbiton looked fake in his opinion. He had nearly crossed Bag End out of his list to be honest. He didn’t in the end, obviously, something in his mind telling him that, after all, maybe a complete change of settings would do him good. He quite liked the idea of this kind of unexpected adventure. The houses shared a lot of similarities with the general design of Bag End and the Gamgee’s house. They had a sense of roundness and welcoming, with bright natural colours like green or yellow, and more rarely sky blue. It was an interesting set of features, one that Thomas wasn’t familiar with but which hit a sensitive cord inside of him nonetheless. Where he came from, up in the north, the designs were more angular, sharper and somehow intimidating, and the proportions far grander. This was so different in many ways, but not unpleasant at all.

 

He stopped by the market place, gazing at the vast square of lawn buzzing with activity. It was funny, and also fascinating, seeing all those people, most of them round and rather short, moving around in a hurried pace, their baskets or paper bags in hands. The sound of conversations was filling his ears, compact and noisy, as if it literally stuffed the air like a massive cloud. This, on the other hand, was no different than his own hometown. He remembered running around the market of Dale, as a child, him and Frederick playing a game of tag or using the crowd to hide. He smiled while wandering around, humming the smell of baked goods, daydreaming in front of all the various cheese … except that blue stuff there, why was a cheese blue ? The only thing he frowned at was the vegetables. He had never enjoyed them much, really. His mother had often thrown her hands in the air, ranting about that distaste for greeneries that seemed to run in their family.

Though, to be honest, he knew for certain that they weren’t the worst regarding that issue. One of his nephews’ friends was even worse. Anything looking more or less like salad seemed like a huge offense to him, to his brother’s perpetual disappointment. The look on Daisy’s face, one particular dinner, when faced with a pale and nervous Oliver had been priceless. The poor kid had been too terrified to tell her he hated greeneries but his face had betrayed everything.

 

He bought various food items, mentally cursing himself for not bringing a basket or something with him, before walking back the long and winding line that was Bagshot road. The plastic bag one of the merchants had given him was bumping against his leg with each step, and it was a good thing that his skin was thick, really, because he was sure he would have had a bruise otherwise. He only had himself to blame for his absentmindedness. The ghost was floating in the kitchen when he entered the house. He seemed to want to take a look at Thomas’s groceries, but cautiously refrained from doing so. Always the polite thing. Thomas tried to start the conversation, and deliver his news, as naturally as possible.

 

\- The Gamgees still live next door.

 

Well, that was smooth as hell, he told himself, barely containing a sigh.

 

\- Oh, really ? I’m glad to hear that. Not that I can do anything about it though, it’s not like I can just knock at their door, isn’t it ? But, well, it’s always nice to hear.

 

Thomas just smiled at him, taking the food out of the bag and putting them onto the counter, in an attempt to make the ghost lose his resolve and come closer to inspect everything. He could see that Bilbo was practically squinting.

 

\- Hm, yes. Oh, and the kid you knew, Alfred … well, he got married and he has two kids now.

\- Wow, this is amazing. I always knew Alfred would be the father kind.

\- Yeah. He got a gardening business, too. I thought about asking him to do the garden here. Like good old times.

\- Fantastic ! He really was good at it.

\- If the state of his garden is any proof, I believe so.

 

The ghost was approaching slowly, floating closer to the counter, and Thomas was doing his best to look oblivious. His jaw was aching slightly with the effort he was doing to not grin like a moron. He could see the short ectoplasm glancing at the items, his head nodding a bit, and a little smile on his lips. Thomas tried to sound candid when he asked.

 

\- I bought this cheese on the market. The lady told me it was French. What do you think I should do with it ?

 

The ghost’s face seemed to light up. As much as a translucent creature could light up, though.

 

\- Oh, I know this one. Well, I imagine you didn’t buy sausage ?

\- Uh, I did. But it’s kind of a smoked one.

\- Perfect, absolutely brilliant.

 

Bilbo was clapping his hands together happily.

 

\- It’s really good when you heat the cheese in the oven, and eat it with the sausage, and some potatoes.

\- All right, I’ll do that then. Tonight.

 

He turned to the ghost, who smiled at him in reply. He was glad he could bring back some news to Bilbo, and converse with him about something he visibly enjoyed when alive. It was rewarding, perhaps more than the fact that he managed to go out and be civil to the town folk, which was already an accomplishment. The ghost was chatting around the kitchen, comparing the merits of this or that recipes, adding a few comments here and there about cheese in general, and seeming immensely cheerful. Actually, he looked better than the previous evening, and that state of being was apparently improving with each minute passing. Would it be a terribly bad pun if he said that the ghost looked more “alive” ? Yes ? Right, scratch that then.

 

The rest of the day passed in the same fashion, relaxed and in good company. He had never enjoyed Sundays much, to be honest. Or weekends in general. He liked to work, he liked to have things to do, calls to make … he liked feeling useful. Weekends were days when he didn’t have this activity that kept him busy. He usually ran, read the few papers his friend and assistant had let him take home, and occasionally caught some rugby game to get excited and yell at. He didn’t like that, no, the quiet and the dull. He didn’t have much more to do today, really, just had his paperwork to read, but somehow, it wasn’t as boring as it usually was. He didn’t know how, but the short ghost floating over the armchair and humming quietly was comforting. It occurred to him at some point that he probably shouldn’t feel as calm with the thought of having a ghost in his house, let alone behaving in such a familiar way. It should have frightened him a bit, the ease, the feeling of something perfectly normal, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It was just one day, maybe he didn’t fully realize. He didn’t know, and didn’t really care. He couldn’t say why exactly, but it felt right … or not “off” anyway.

Maybe he was going mad. Or maybe he was harder to surprise than he originally thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so incredibly sorry for the time it took. As I explained in my other fic's notes, I did Nanowrimo, and it sure takes a lot of your time. Then, my family turned into its usual holiday-frenzy that becomes this huge mess of people shouting and running around nervously (I swear they are actually dwarves).  
> But hey, here it is, finally !!
> 
> My beta-reader ([ConsultingTimeLord](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingTimeLord/pseuds/ConsultingTimeLord)) is back again on business, so this chapter was actually checked. Yeah !
> 
> As was the case for last chapter, my main worry is that Thorin would appear too OC, so your comments and suggestions would be appreciated. You can still find me on [my tumblr](http://dragonsingondolin.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm is coming, and Thomas Durin might not be prepared for it at all.

Summer slowly faded into autumn, the heat of early September turning day after day, week after week, into the drizzle and gentle wind of the first days of October. Temperature dropped slightly, in a slow cold wave. Soon -too soon some would say- November would drenched them, drown them, leaving them feeling like old towels left in a damp bathroom, unable to shake away the wetness, unable to find the simple comfort of being dry and warm. Not that everybody minded, actually. For some people, rain and wind was exactly what they aspired to. Thomas Durin, who had never been a man for hot weathers, was absolutely thrilled by the change of seasons, and had spent the last days of summer nearly bouncing in excitement at the perspective of –finally- entering the realm of Autumn. He spent more and more of his days outside, simply walking down the streets of the little village, humming the rich scents of woods and earth, and marvelling every day at the good fortune which made him chose a rural location, despite his first reluctance. In the end, he was glad for this change of scenery, even though he still was a true city boy at heart.

In the city, he never had the time to enjoy anything, to take his time and marvel at the surrounding nature. There was always something else to do, somewhere to be, someone to see. It just never stopped, a never-ending rush six days a week, sometimes all seven. Here … well, there weren’t many things to do, to begin with. Once you had drunk a pint at the local inn, the green dragon, chatted with some neighbour –well, mostly Alfred in his case-, it didn’t leave a lot of activities to enjoy. It did leave, however, all the time in the world to exist.

Smoking in the winter garden on the evenings while gazing at the nature around felt blissful. His ears were full of the sound of the remaining insects, and of the wind slowly blowing outside. Bilbo was floating a few feet away, humming in tune with the insects’ noise. All was quiet and comforting. Thomas felt blessed. It seemed to him that nothing wrong could ever happen now, in this beautiful heaven that he had finally been able to find for himself. Everything would be alright, now.

 

Oh, how wrong he had been.

 

He would curse himself later for tempting fate. Ironically, he had never believed in fate before. Fate was a concept created by people too weak to go build their own luck, his grandfather used to say. Nobody could ever say that Trevor Durin was anything but hard-working and strong-willed. Strong men believe in cause and effects, was something else he took great care to tell his grandchildren. Thomas had internalized this rhetoric, and he used to firmly believe that there was no such things as Fate. He left that to his sister, the old language and culture expert who loved to quote old-arse tragedies. Thomas Durin wasn’t someone easily impressed. But he had never believed in ghost neither, after all, and was slowly starting to amend his judgment on all the things he thought were not possible.

 

It had started suddenly, without a warning. Well, there had been a warning, actually, if you wanted to play on words. A loud noise, yes, but more like the crash of a small table on the wooden floor of the living room, with the sound of a terracotta pot breaking into hundreds of pieces, and followed by a shriek. Thomas, who had been reading files in the study, jumped to his feet in a second, all his reflexes alight like a Christmas tree in his brain, and crossed the parlour to the living room. Bilbo’s face turned to him, the ghost scratching his head with his eyes wide and an apologetic expression in his face.

 

\- I … I don’t know what happened. I was just floating, as usual, and I ran into the table.

 

The taller man didn’t answer for a moment, his eyes going from the ghost to the table, and back to the ghost, in a slow, dumbstruck movement. When he finally spoke, his voice was slightly higher than usual.

 

\- What do you mean you ran into it ?

\- Well, I mean exactly what I said. I ran into it. Literally. And it crashed.

\- But you cannot … you pass through it.

 

The ghost was twisting his hands with a grimace, nodding quickly. He looked positively lost, his eyes focused on the shattered pot and spilled dirt, obviously trying to understand what had happened and, just like Thomas, finding no explanation to bring back some sense into this madness.

 

\- Yes, I am well aware of that, Thomas. But I did. I did !

 

Thomas marched up wordlessly to the kitchen, retrieving the broom and shovel to clean up the mess. His body was acting on automatic pilot, falling into habits and mechanical movements while his brain was left in a haze. He understood from the ghost’s reaction that this wasn’t normal, though he could have guessed as much alone. Wasn’t it the point of ghosts, to simply walk through things ? He had never been an expert on paranormal activities, and his only knowledge on that was his sister forcing them to watch ghostbusters with her. Obviously, it wasn’t much help to understand what was going on.

He kneeled to clean the dirt, patiently brushing the floor, picking up bits of terracotta, and disposing of the remnant of the disaster into a trash bag. Bilbo was floating a few feet away, still looking at the dirt and carefully avoiding to meet Thomas’s eyes, who was himself too focused on his cleaning to stare at him.

After taking the bag out and coming back into the living room, he found the ghost in the exact same position, still twisting his hands nervously and staring at the same spot. He didn’t know what to tell the creature, he had no idea what to do to comfort him. He had never been good at giving words of comfort, truth be told, but he never had a problem conversing with Bilbo before, for some reason. It was always smooth, natural, to talk with him, and even when they weren’t talking, it didn’t matter because they didn’t feel the need to, they never felt forced to speak. But now, for the first time since he had moved in and met the ghost, Thomas was at a loss of what to say, and he knew he should be saying something, wanted to offer some words even. For the first time, he felt uncomfortable and awkward around Bilbo. Back to his older self, then.

 

Sadly, it wouldn’t be the last time. Days passed, and things seemed to turn back to relatively normal. Still, the memory of what had happened, and of his inability to do anything else than clean the physical mess weighted on Thomas’s mind. Conversation between them had been tentative, slightly off, and silence had grown to be uneasy.

Worse than that, though, was the fact that, in the following month, the same kind of event happened at least a dozen times. Thomas lost the count after a while, more preoccupied by the nature of the problem than by how many times it had happened, but by the end of October, a fair number of furniture had been abused by the ghost’s sudden materialization, as Thomas had decided to call it for lack of better words. Bilbo had also developed a sort of habit of slamming against walls at the most random moments, startling Thomas awake or making him drop his things at the dull sound of flesh against the thick walls.

It reached the point where the ghost’s skin started forming bruises on his arms and legs because of the unexpected encounters with various objects. Soon enough, they moved past the point where Bilbo would just forget that there was the possibility to run into things. They had reached the one where Bilbo was downright panicking about hitting walls, and pressed his translucent palm to them to check if it would stop him, or if he could still pass through it. He couldn’t open doors, obviously, so Thomas always made sure to leave them open, just in case. But Bilbo was so used to simply walking through the walls that he didn’t think of using the open doors most of the times. He looked like those cats who looked confusedly at furniture or doors and blocking in front of them when there was more than enough space for them to pass around them. It would have been funny, if things weren’t so confusing and terrifying for Bilbo, and by extension, for Thomas.

 

It was absolutely nerve-wracking for the ghost, he could tell as much. He found him pacing more and more inside the rooms, looking at the furniture with weary looks as if it could suddenly jump on him. The shorter man was anxious, and Thomas had no idea what to do or say, so he did what he always did when he was faced with a situation he couldn’t fight his way through : he avoided it. He started to shut himself in his study, busying himself with his paperwork, and trying to think of any logical explanation. Maybe Bilbo would be more at peace if they had an idea of what was happening ? It could never hurt to know, anyway.

But the answer eluded him. Thomas had come to the conclusion that Bilbo was becoming flesh and blood again, which resulted in those materialization, and the bruises that seemed to indicate that his bloodstream was mysteriously flowing. It was a good start, indeed, but it didn’t explain why. It was mere observation, and when he tried to question those facts, to assemble them into a draft of theory, his mind remained blank. It was driving him crazy. Challenge had never frightened him before, and he had always wormed his way through them with courage and patience, and a great deal of pig-headedness, his brother would add. But there was nothing he found he could do in that case, and the thought started to creep inside of his mind and numb his senses, like a pit of cold water in which he had stepped and which slowly dulled his members.

He hated it, this situation and not being able to help in any way, and this annoyance he was feeling deep inside was sadly the only thing that stopped him from letting himself slip into passivity and indifference. But he knew that even this frustration prompted by his failure would not hold for very long. He needed more than it if he wanted to keep caring about the situation, if he wanted to still have the will to work on it.

 

Unfortunately, as was the case every time Thomas Durin felt frustrated with himself, it tended to turn into exasperation for everything in general, and the anger and hostility that radiated from him was rubbing off on everybody else. His employees and family didn’t mind much. They knew him and his ways, and they had been there with and for him through the many battles -both professional and personal- that he had taken upon his shoulders over the years. For them, it was just another one, one they couldn’t understand or win for him, but would support him through until he would find a way by himself. They tried to be as kind and comprehensive as they could, to take some of the pressure from him, but they didn’t take it for them, didn’t feel wounded by his coldness, his absence of communication, or the shortness of his temper. They knew to give him space and time to figure it out.

Bilbo, on the other hand, was unaware of this fact and, sadly, concluded that it was his fault. He didn’t tell Thomas, probably not wanting to add to his already growing irritation, but Thomas knew. He could see it in the creature’s behaviour, in the way the ghost was adverting his eyes, afraid to meet his and read his frustration in it. Oh, how Thomas wanted to tell him, to reassure him that he had done nothing wrong, that he wasn’t angry at the little ghost but at himself for feeling so helpless, so useless. But the words eluded him, and he was left to stare at the sad little ghost, standing tensely, or waiting for another bang or crash to happen from the confine of his study in the depth of the house to dash from it, clean the unfortunate object or piece of furniture, and then retreat back to the silence of his self-appointed headquarter.

 

Retrospectively, Thomas berated himself for doing so, for hiding and not communicating about it. They could have worked through this together, should have, instead of isolating themselves from each other, retreating into a metaphorical castle of silence and storm. They should have, yes, but it’s easier to say so afterward, and much more difficult to do it when you’re faced with the stone walls of isolation and don’t have a clue how to climb them up, so you sit at the bottom trying to find a way in while time passed without waiting for you. After a while, you realize that the drawbridge was open all this time, but it’s too late… the damage is done and the dragon has already eaten the princess... or something close.

No dragon came in their story, of course. It was a ghost story, after all, not a fairy tale. The silence and the storm, on the other hand, were awaiting them at the end of the quest.

 

It soon became apparent that the bumping into furniture and crashing into walls had only been the first step to something bigger, and much much worse. Thomas began to suspect it when objects would start falling down counters and tables and Bilbo was nowhere to be found in the room. Well, it didn’t take a genius to realise that inanimate objects weren’t supposed to move on their own accord to the edge of tables and crash onto the floor. A few months prior, he would have totally freaked out about this, grab the first blunt thing accessible, and hunt the house for burglars, or perhaps just some neighbourhood kids wanting to play tricks. Now, of course, not many things could surprise him anymore, although he had to admit that not finding Bilbo floating next to said object and staring at it miserably while twisting his own hands was indeed suspicious.

To be honest, the first few times it happened, and he had stumbled inside the room, ready to clean the mess and trying to come up with words of comfort he knew he wouldn’t have the courage to actually say out loud, he had stopped dead on his tracks when Bilbo hadn’t been there. He had quickly concluded that the ghost had just exited the room between the moments when the object had fallen and when Thomas himself had entered. Out of shame, frustration, or fear of the confrontation, he didn’t know, but it was the only plausible explanation his brain could come up with, and he would roll with that. He had rolled with that for about five days, actually.

However, he couldn’t exactly deny that it was something else entirely when his personal stuff began to float in the air by themselves, in his own study, while he was alone in said room. It was way harder to dismiss, suddenly.

 

Perhaps now was the time to actually confront the ghost, and his own fear, and have a real discussion about what the hell was happening here. Perhaps. He didn’t feel ready for it, but they were well beyond the point when he could afford to hide in his study and pretend that nothing was happening outside its walls. Well, the problem was literally hunting him inside the very room, so a safe retreat there would obviously not be possible anymore. This practical reason aside, they really needed to have a talk. His sanity would not hold on much longer, and he suspected that the ghost’s wouldn’t either.

 

 

The creature was floating in the living room, probably had been for hours, when Thomas found him, and was gazing through the window at the cloudburst coming down from the sky. What a cliché, Thomas thought absentmindedly, taking in the sight. A ghost in the living room and a storm outside. Mahal was mocking him. He hadn’t even turned his head when Thomas had entered, too deep inside his own thoughts. The human stood awkwardly for a moment, before crossing the distance to come and sit in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. He waited some more, for what felt like ages, scratching absentmindedly at the fabric of the armchair with his nail. He needed to gather his courage, or rather, to forget about silly notions like courage or pride, and think about Bilbo and his wellbeing, for once. He sighed, finally launching himself into the great unknown.

 

\- Bilbo… I think you’re becoming a poltergeist.

 

Ouch, that was blunt, Thomas winced. The ghost turned his head so fast towards Thomas that the man was almost certain it would have snapped if he wasn’t already dead. Bilbo then emitted a small laugh of nervousness, one of those he tended to do when things were confusing and frightened, which had become more and more frequent for the past month and the beginning of his materialization.

 

\- What do you mean, a poltergeist ? What in the name of Yavanna is that ?

 

Thomas closed his eyes, concentrating. He had come to the conclusion some time after his papers and possessions had started flying around in his study, remembering suddenly some of the films his siblings and him had watched in the past, where ghosts would just start moving things around to freak out the –inevitably white and suburban- family that had bought the house looking for a fresh start. Starting from there, the correct chain of thoughts hadn’t been too complicated to follow. Once one abandoned the idea of anything within the realm of possibility, actually, everything about this situation made more sense. Or maybe it was just that Thomas’s mind was more twisted than he originally thought.

Now he had to to wonder to which extend he wanted the ghost to know. Especially considering that he wasn’t certain he knew himself. Did he want to scare the ghost by exposing facts he wasn’t sure of, and didn’t even know if they applied fully on this situation ? All things considered, he would try to go smoothly at first, just to test waters. He would decide then depending on what would arise.

 

\- It’s a … hmm … kind of ghost, like you, only it can move and touch things, apparently.

 

Bilbo was looking at him with an impassive expression, but his translucent eyes were deep in concentration.

 

\- So it’s positive, I guess ?

\- Er … yes. Yes, of course it is.

 

The creature’s stare turned sharp.

 

\- What are you not telling me, Thomas ?

\- Nothing. What would I be hiding ?

\- I don’t know… you tell me, Thomas.

 

Funny how the ghost took to adding his name whenever he was annoyed, or wanted his point to be understood, Thomas thought.

 

\- There’s nothing. It’s alright.

 

What did Bilbo sensed in his words ? Incertitude, hesitation, worry ? He didn’t know. He had always thought that he was good at concealing his emotions, hiding them behind the mask of responsibility and righteousness that came with managing the company inherited from your grandfather, after years of handling things when the old man was becoming more and more paranoid. You would think that this would help him deal with an overly sensitive poltergeist, but apparently, he had committed the sin of pride, thinking he could hide it from him. What kind of otherworldly powers did the ghost possessed, beside moving objects and being alternatively material and not ? Perhaps he had a better perception of people’s emotions, on top of that ? Thomas was ready to believe anything, at this point. Whatever it was, it made Bilbo feel the lie under his words, or maybe what he was omitting with this half-truth. And it was turning the ghost angry, apparently.

Thomas looked, swallowing dryly, as the table lamp and a tall china vase were dangerously floating on the airs behind Bilbo. The ghost was once more twisting his hands nervously, looking at the human with a stony hard expression. His voice was higher than usual, and it had a weird echo in it, as if it wasn’t totally coming from the small figure, but from the room itself around them.

 

-Don’t lie, don’t lie. There is something, isn’t it ? Something more ? Of course there is. Thomas, I have been a ghost for a really long time, and I couldn’t do any of those things before. Something happened ! And now I’m becoming this thing, this polterstuff. It can’t be just that. What is it ? What is a poltergeist exactly ?

 

Now was the time to decide, he thought. Bilbo deserved to know, of course. It was about him, after all, and all of this had been so stressful for him, the unknown, the silence, the void. It wasn’t Thomas’s to decide what information to keep from him. But, on the other hand, he couldn’t help but think that it was perhaps a bit too harsh, and that this bit of information was probably best kept hidden, after all. He wasn’t sure, therefor he let the hard stare of the creature convince him. It had gotten too far to stop here now.

 

\- It’s … a poltergeist is ... a vengeful ghost.

 

For a fliting second, it looked like the ghost would laugh. He had frozen, surprise written on his features, mouth slightly open in a curious rictus, and it had really seemed to Thomas that he would laugh. But Bilbo only let a breath out, muttering.

 

\- No, no… I’m not vengeful. Why would I be vengeful ?

\- I don’t know. Listen, Bilbo…

 

But the ghost wasn’t listening to him anymore, and Thomas had to duck at some point to avoid being hit by the lamp. Bilbo was now holding his head with his hands, trembling with such intensity that Thomas felt the sudden urge to take him in his arms and cradle him, before he remembered that such a thing wasn’t possible. He could only watch, helpless, and try to reassure him with words, something he should have done right from the beginning of all this mess, he realised now.

 

\- It makes no sense, no sense at all.

\- There is probably a good explanation for this. We can find why…

 

His sentence was cut short when he ghost suddenly stormed out of the room, first running into a wall, but finding the open door after a few seconds. Thomas tried to follow as fast as he could, slaloming between the various objects that were now spiralling in the living room and through the kitchen. He wanted to call after the ghost, but it seemed that all the air had been knocked out of his lungs, as if he were drowning, but without the sheer terror that should have come with it. He was a fish on the bank of a river, trying desperately to slide back to the water, twisting and yearning for the water, but never reaching it. Bilbo had found the door to the garden, and Thomas was left standing at the doorstep, staring into the dark of the garden, wind and rain positively slapping his face, and his mouth hanging open without any sound coming out of it.

 

For the first time in about twenty years, Bilbo had stepped outside the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so incredibly long since I last updated this. Christmas, I believe *blushes*  
> But, to be honest, I can't bring myself to feel ashamed for this. I had never really abandoned the fic, but I don't like continuing a story just for the sake of saying that I updated it. The style and the plot of this are for me too important to scamp something, so I decided to take all the time necessary.  
> Also, this semester in University was really important and tiring, so the choice was easy to make.  
> Though I'm sorry if you were waiting for this sooner, I really didn't want to give the impression that I was only half into it. I prefer delivering a finished product x)
> 
> Anyway, here it is. I hope you enjoy it, and if you could leave comments and feedback to tell me what you think of where the plot is heading, I would be extremely grateful.  
> [here](http://8tracks.com/dracoingondolin/not-your-average-poltergeist)is a little playlist I did for it, and you can still find me on [my tumblr](http://dragonsingondolin.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

Bilbo was outside. Thomas’s mind could barely register the fact. Or rather, he had perfectly managed to register it, but it was processing the idea and its implications that he had trouble doing. He was standing in front of the door stiffly, gaze focused nowhere in particular as the night was too deep for his eyes to see anything past a few feet away, and it was as if all of the situation was crashing down onto him at once, and he didn’t know how to put every titbits of information and thoughts inside the right file, and didn’t think of trying to be honest. The rain was drenching him, going through his clothes slowly, soaking his very bones, and he was gaping for air, anxiety and bile both rising in his chest and throat. It felt like drowning, yes, and maybe he was, metaphorically speaking or not. He didn’t have it in him to care at all, as obsessed as his mind was about that single idea. Bilbo was outside.

 

It shouldn’t be, couldn’t be possible at all. The ghost had said it himself the very first time they met : he was bound to haunt the place where he had died. His movements were limited inside the perimeter materialized by the house’s walls. He had confessed he couldn’t even step foot – or rather, float – in the garden. It had been confirmed multiple times those past months during which they had shared the house, and Thomas had seen the faint sadness that idea seemed to provoke in Bilbo. He had apparently liked gardening and walking through nature when he was alive, and still did in death. That was obvious. He had spent the last couple of decades looking at the garden through the glass of the veranda, expression of longing marking his face – and that was only when his cousin Lobelia wasn’t around to chase him away to the attic, where there was no window on the garden. No, Bilbo couldn’t go outside, it was just not possible.

But now… now this was happening, and Thomas had no explanation for it, and couldn’t even clear his mind enough to start thinking of one.

 

He took a few steps in the garden, and it felt like walking on cotton candy, his body barely feeling the ground under his feet or the wind blowing around him. If it weren’t for the rain he had to unconsciously blink away from his eyes, his body would probably not have reacted to anything. He was acting on autopilot mode, walking slowly like a machine, eyes trying to scan the darkness surrounding him to catch a glimpse of the ghost. But it appeared that Bilbo was nowhere around. There was no light and no noise, except the sound of the furious wind. He was completely alone.

The only reasonable idea that occurred to him was that calling Bilbo’s name at loud, in the late evening, in the middle of his garden, would be incredibly weird. He probably didn’t have much dignity left, walking blindly around, soaking wet and confused, but he ought to preserve as much of it as was possible. And perhaps his sanity, if he still had some, which he was seriously starting to doubt.

 

When he was a kid, he remembered having a fight with his brother. Frederick and he had always had different personalities, like fire and water, and they tended to clash a lot. That particular fight had stopped when Frederick, who was the youngest and smallest of the two, had stormed out of their playing room to go play on his own. Thomas had spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying his time alone, blissfully untroubled. It was later on, when his father had called them to have dinner, that he had realised that this wasn’t normal, that Frederick not coming back to bother him, or ask him to play was weird – he had always been a sociable kid, while Thomas preferred being left alone, and so he was always the one to come back and beg him to do something with him.

He had never forgotten the desperate, frantic, searching around the house and the garden, his father’s eyes wide with fear, his own intestines twisted by anxiety and guilt, the neighbours slowly pouring out of their house and starting to search with them, only to find Frederick asleep in the tree-house in the tall oak tree of the backyard. The night was also deep that evening, and they saw next to nothing except for the electric lights.

Thomas didn’t even have an electric torch now. He was alone, cold and miserable in the dark, but with the same urgency as all those years ago. More than thirty years ago, and he was back to being a little boy walking around the garden in his slippers in search of someone that had disappeared outside by his fault. Well, something, his mind reminded him, Bilbo was not really someone anymore. But was he not, some part of his brain wondered. After all, Thomas had been adamant to treat him like a human being, and not as some sort of dark creature. And now, Bilbo had become less and less a creature, what with the sudden ability to touch objects, and now the escape out of bonds. Was he, really, not human ?

 

It was hardly the right time to ask himself philosophical questions, indeed, but it was hardly the time to wander around the garden neither, and here he was. While he was lost in the middle of the odorant bushes, he might as well get lost in metaphysics reasoning. Night time and rainy weather were just adding some convenient settings for the mood. Maybe a raven wouldn’t be misplaced, to dig into the delirium even further.

 

This sudden realisation of how grotesque the situation was made him stop dead in his tracks. Here he was, running around in circles, frantic as if it were a matter of life and death. Alright, there was a matter of life and death, given the situation, but there was absolutely nothing truly desperate. Sure, Bilbo had gone outside the house… and so what ? It wasn’t as if he could catch a pneumonia, or be attacked by wild animals, or this kind of things. He was dead, after all, there was nothing that could kill him a second time.

Then why exactly was he so desperately searching ? What was he searching for, to begin with ? Was it Bilbo, or was he using this as an excuse ? He had tried really hard to make the ghost feel at home, to help him, one way or another, to bring some sort of happiness into his life. Why was it ? Was it pure generosity, a truly altruistic will to make someone’s life – or afterlife – better ? Or was he trying to achieve something else entirely… was he trying to make himself feel at home ?

 

With all those questions in mind, he was making his way back to the house. Ironically, his legs walked him there without faltering or losing their way. Maybe he hadn’t gone as far in the garden as he had thought, but something told him that it had more to do with how frantic and confused he had been compared to his calmer, much more reasonable self now.

Bilbo would come back at some point, he thought, when his emotions would have calmed down and back to normal. He couldn’t always be behind the ghost to make sure he was alright. He needed to give him space and time to figure it all out. He had to figure out a few things of his own, in the meantime.

 

Only… Bilbo didn’t come back that night, and he wasn’t there when Thomas woke up the next morning with the most formidable cold he had ever had. He was under the weather, literally and figuratively. The heavy rain still falling down from the sky only added to his general melancholia and to the nausea. And to think that he had always taken pride in his natural sturdiness, always joking about how nothing could take him down. We Durins are stronger than oak trees, his father used to say, tempests can blow all their might, we laugh at them. Well, there was a first time for everything, Thomas though bitterly as he tried to will himself out of bed, hoping to get some breakfast into his body. Not that his hopes were high, but still.

He finally managed to reach the kitchen, although he had to stop two times in the stairs to sit on a step and breathe, praying that the world would stop turning around his head. He looked around, but saw no traces of the ghost. His voice was too hoarse and weak to call, and he wasn’t feeling well enough to really focus on the issue. He sat at the wooden table, trying to think of something that his stomach would tolerate, but every suggestion his brain managed to come up with was met by an instinctive wave of disgust. Maybe he should have stayed in bed, after all.

 

In the span of the following hour, he was only able to drink a cup of the herbal tea his sister had insisted he always had at home and a French toast. He felt slightly hungry, vaguely disgusted by everything, and very sad. Folded miserably on the sofa in the living room, and feeling as if he was actually agonizing, his tired mind wandered to the ghost and his sudden nerve crisis. After having an internal debate to decide whether or not a ghost’s dead nerves could still lead him to have this sort of crisis – a question of high importance, as you can imagine, but which received no definitive answer as Thomas had fallen asleep at some point – he then wondered where Bilbo was, if he had spent the night floating around the countryside and if he should expect to read about an alarming and mysterious epidemic of heart attacks within the local farmers community in the following days.

He didn’t have much more luck for the rest of the day, regarding Bilbo’s reappearing and his own sickness. After calling his work to take his day, his voice so feeble he had to repeat a few times to make himself understood, he plunged into a troubled sleep, waking a few time to wipe the sweet from his forehead only to fall back in his nervous dreams.

 

He dreamt of the mountains where his father used to take them when he was a child, of the smell of the forest near it when it had burnt one summer, of the tempest of the previous night, and of the smiling face of the ghost. All of this was confused, and he didn’t remember much of it when he finally woke up completely past noon with a sore and dry throat and a headache. He only had one certitude when he woke up, and it was that there was a window open, and that he needed to close it. Which window, and why was it so important to close it, he didn’t know. There probably was no window open in the house, as he had closed them before the storm had started. But the idea lingered as he was trying to stand up from the sofa to go fetch some water.

He dreamt a lot during the following hours, and the following days. Two days actually, feeling both as long as an age and incredibly short at the same time. He slept a lot, but didn’t get much rest. He was too agitated and worried.

 

When he wasn’t sleeping, he was trying to catch a sign of Bilbo’s presence. There was none. The ghost still hadn’t come back. Why was it ? Where was he ? The questions were spinning around his brain, only managing to confuse him further.

 

 

What if, a dark voice was whispering in his mind, Bilbo had never been here ? What if he had been so eager to find his place, to feel at home, that he had invented himself company ? After all, there was no proof that anybody had ever seen the ghost. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and his son Lothaire were far away now, sunbathing on a Spanish beach. The only persons who could possibly confirm this. How fitting, the voice sneakered, how very practical. Nothing to infirm his poor lonely brain’s invention.

But, he tried to counter, how could he have invented an image of someone he had never heard of before, how could he paint a portrait of Bilbo so close to what the man had actually been when he had never known him ? Oh, but he could have read the name in the agent’s papers, and then use Alfred Gamgee’s description to create the image, giving himself the illusion that he had seen the ghost before hearing about all of it.

 

Why not ? The human brain does that sometimes, the impression of déjà-vu and the recreating of a memory afterward. He had seen it before, had he not ? Madness. An old man, sitting straight in his armchair, eyes glassy fixed in front of him without seeing, a coat draped around himself as if it were a cape, his outward appearance perfectly kept but his mind a mess.

He had spent so many years telling himself that he wasn’t his grandfather, that he was stronger than that and wouldn’t succumb to the same illness. Fate, he thought, was for the weak and the idiot. We Durins are stronger than oak trees. Very strong indeed. Well, it wasn’t wrong, in a way. Only… a tree can be brought down, by the weather or by the human will, hitting the hard cold ground never to rise again. The tree is strong only to a certain extend, and the Durin family had always been good at sawing its own roots, it seemed.

 

Maybe he had imagined Bilbo, after all. Maybe he was alone. He didn’t know what this idea provoked in him. Sadness ? Anger ? Sense of doom ? He wasn’t sure. It didn’t feel right, but it was probably his sick brain trying to clutch to the idea that he was fine, and that what he had imagined was perfectly real and normal. He wasn’t entirely sure of what was normal and what wasn’t, anyway. His fever was too strong to allow him to think about this clearly.

 

Oh, and his skull was hurting so much. It was like putting his head on an anvil and having a hammer falling down and hit it time and time again. He needed to do something about it.

He had a box of pills for headaches in the drawer of his bedtable, he remembered confusedly. That would surely help, or at least contain the pain a bit. Slowly, his glass of water still clutched in his hand, he climbed the stairs, reaching his bedroom with the speed of a snail, but getting there finally. He felt weak, really weak, and the pounding in his head wasn’t helping. He sat on the bed, extending his arm toward the table, not exactly aware of every move he was doing. His mind was just focused, as much as it could stay focused, on finding the pills. His hand found the drawer, opening it slowly and palping inside of it, in search of the box. He got it, opening it and taking a pill, swallowing it with some water, then putting the glass on the table, all of this very slowly and very carefully. Now, he could just hope that it would produce its effect quickly.

He laid on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position as he felt he wouldn’t be able to stay sitting for very long. Some long minutes passed, but not the headache. Breathing heavily, he thought to put the box back in the drawer. It was probably not absolutely necessary, but his sick and tired mind probably wanted to have the illusion of doing something productive. And so he put the box back in the drawer. Only, he encountered something else, something unexpected. His fingertips studied the thing for a moment, before he took it out to look at it.

 

A stone, a little stone, glowing with a strange light. It was fascinating, weird and impossible, but still, it made much more sense than everything that had happened in the previous couple of days. Nothing else than this made sense, actually. It should have been yet another mystery for his poor brain, another piece of the big puzzle that he was trying to build again, but it appeared that this particular piece allowed him to put all of the others back together.

In his hand was Bilbo’s stone, the one that had killed him, the one that had emitted the light ever since he had found it in the attic and had decided to put in his pocket without knowing why. And since then, he had carried it with him, from his pocket to the kitchen table, to his study, and finally inside his bedtable. Bilbo’s stone, which had been an apparently innocent traveller around the house, but which was maybe more than what it had seemed.

Oh, Mahal almighty, he had been so stupid !

 

His hand, too feeble, let the stone fall on the floor, and it rolled a few inches away from him, his light illuminating the room around. Thomas was feeling tired still. Thinking had exhausted him even more, and his headache was decreasing only slowly. He needed to go back to sleep. Which he did, letting his head fall back into the pillow, his last vision being the glowing little stone on the wooden floor.

 

 

He woke up, and it was the morning of the third day. His head was clear of any ache but still spinning. Something cold was pressed to his forehead, and it took him a moment to realise that it was a hand. A fresh hand, caring and gentle, feeling somewhat surreal. He blinked, willing his eyes to focus. There was a face in front of him, a translucent face with deep grey eyes and a sad frown.

 

\- Bilbo ?! he muttered, his tongue feeling too heavy for his mouth, I thought you were…

 

The ghost was looking at him, concern written all over his features. He tried to sit up, but he was still confused and weak, and Bilbo’s cold semi-material hand made him lay back down. He struggled to find his words, but it didn’t matter. He had all his time. Bilbo was here. Bilbo was back.

 

\- I thought I had imagined you… that you weren’t real.

\- I am sorry, Thomas. I really am. It was very stupid of me to run away.

\- No, no. You were afraid. I was too blind to see, to understand what was happening.

\- Hush, you need to rest. It’s alright, I’m here now.

\- No, you don’t understand. I know why ! You, the objects… I know.

 

He pointed out to the stone, still on the floor a few feet away. Bilbo turned to see, considering the object for a few seconds, and then back to him.

 

\- The stone ? What do you mean ?

\- I’m not sure how, but somehow you’re connected to it. Your life or your soul, whatever you want to call it. I kept the stone next to me for weeks now. It was around me, living and breathing with me…

 

He stopped to cough, which left Bilbo some time to process what he had just said.

 

\- You mean… I’ve been more and more alive because the stone was with you all along ?

\- Yes. Your cousin probably didn’t want to have anything to do with it, she just threw it in the attic with you. That’s why it only started when I moved in.

\- Because you took the stone with you.

 

He nodded slowly, as he was too weak to answer verbally. Bilbo’s hand was still pressed against his forehead. It felt good, like a dream, but a nice one, not like those he had had for the past days.

 

\- You are still sick, the ghost breathed, you need to rest now.

\- Will you be here when I wake up ?

\- Yes, I will. I promise.

 

His voice already sounded distant to Thomas’s ears, like heard through cotton. But the ghost’s smile, warm and friendly, was still clear, a beacon in the haze of his brain.

 

 

The weather cleared out the next day, and the fever with it. It took him a few more days to chase the remaining of his symptoms, getting more food and more herbal tea into himself, bathing the sweat away, and progressively taking off the layers of clothing and blankets he had disappeared under.

He had half expected the ghost to have vanished again, despite his reassuring discovery, but Bilbo’s smile and easy conversation had welcomed him, and they were falling back into their old habits. They were also working out and talking about the matter of the stone and its effects. Neither of them had the faintest idea of how this was possible, and it soon appeared that Thomas’s theory was probably the closest to the truth they would ever be. It didn’t really matter, did it, Bilbo had shrugged one evening during the following week, as long as they had a vague idea, the why and the how were irrelevant. And, as much as Thomas wanted to know, wanted to dig further into the theory, he had to agree with the ghost. It didn’t really matter. What they had found was already better than nothing. Beside, Bilbo seemed to deeply regret his outburst and running off, and perhaps trying to go deeper into the searching and interrogation would do him more harm than good. Thomas wasn’t too interested in provoking another dramatic episode. This issue would have to be dropped, or let to run its own course freely.

 

It didn’t really matter, Bilbo’s voice echoed once again in his mind. The ghost was here by his side, his translucent not-quite-here hand on Thomas’s own, and the quiet hum of the news presenter’s voice coming from the TV making the atmosphere quiet and comfortable. When exactly had they become so domestic ? He wasn’t entirely sure. Ever since he had woken up from his fever with Bilbo by his side, the ghost had been even more familiar. Thorin had been too, as a matter of fact. It was all so easy suddenly, especially after the month spent wondering and worrying about what was happening to Bilbo. Now it was… peaceful. The ocean after a splendid storm, its horizon open and clear, the wind a gentle breeze.

He still had troubles convincing himself that all of this was real to be honest. He would turn his head for a second, and Bilbo would disappear again, surely. And yet, he was becoming more and more present with each day passing. The two of them sitting together in comfortable silence, curled up on the sofa, was real enough, anyway. His smile, pale but gentle, was a reassuring sight too. Yes, yes, he kept telling himself that… Bilbo was real, and he was here to stay… for a good while hopefully. Forever ?

 

And wasn’t that some young adult novel stuff, now ? Well, who cared ? He was old enough to start being disgustingly romantic and optimistic if he wanted to. He had spent most of his life thinking that it would never come to him, this feeling of contentment and wholeness. He now thought he deserved to relish it after everything, even if it meant sounding a tad ridiculous and straight out of some white-and-pink cotton candy-like novel. He was slowly coming to term with the fact that Bilbo wouldn’t vanish into thin air, and for the first time in years, he felt good and at home.

It was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here is the end of the story ! I hope you like it. I'm rather satisfied with the style and flow of it, though the ending was a bit chaotic to write, I must say.  
> I toyed with the idea of saying that Thorin indeed imagines Bilbo, but it felt a bit too cliché, and truth be told, I didn't have the heart to do that to him. What can I say, I'm a sucker for fluff and happy endings.  
> Let me know what you think of it, and what you think of the alternate ending I had thought about.
> 
> I don't know if I should write a little epilogue or something. It's tempting, but I have so many ideas of fics and I've been planning to start some after publishing this ending, so I'm not sure if I'll have the time, especially if people aren't interested.
> 
> It's the first fic I complete, I'm rather excited and proud of myself :D


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